Cider

So quickly were the blossoms drifted by,

And for so brief a time the boughs could hold

Plump ruddy cheeks against them in the sky,

I like to think of cider growing old

In earthen jugs cobwebbed beneath a stair

In some old cellar musky-sweet and dim,

To gurgle in a glass and fill the air

With bubbled fragrance dancing on the brim.

And old cheeks, ruddy under tumbled frost

Of hair, in sly smiles once again must wrinkle,

And old eyes show they have not wholly lost

The wink of cider and the ancient twinkle.

Old men may sniff a hearty rustic mirth

From this aged essence of the dreaming earth.